


Guardian of Angels

by RatTale



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A little corny, Angst, BUT GOOD, Dogs, Friendship, Gen, How Mary died, How Watson coped, Hurt/Comfort, Sad, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Toby is a good dog, Tragedy, but i love it anyway, dogs are awesome, good dogs, just before and during 3 year hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25389361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/RatTale
Summary: Just before Holmes disappears for the three year hiatus, Mary brings Toby into their home, and the dog becomes a constant through all of Watson's tragedies.
Relationships: John Watson & Sherlock Holmes, John Watson & Toby, Mary Morstan/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Guardian of Angels

**Author's Note:**

> I misspelled Toby. Damn you OpenOffice for correcting me incorrectly!

It was his wife who brought the dog into their home. Watson had frozen in between the Livingroom and the study, eyes wide and pinned on the panting creature by her feet. “My dear, why have you brought Toby into the house? Is he lost?”

“John,” she’d admonished, “I've told you before, he is need of a home, and your friend’s landlady would never allow such a thing,” she reached down and petted the happy little mutt – who was sight happier than Watson was at this point, “And we have a home with rooms to spare.”

“Do we?” he asked and the dog tilted his head, as if asking him if he was stupid.

She straightened, “Yes we do,” she handed him the leash, “Now please be so good as to find him a bowl, and a rug to sleep on, I believe a spot under the sink will do lovely.”

And that was that. His wife swept away, and there he stood, still hovering between Livingroom and study but now with a dog in hand. 

When he told Holmes of the events later that evening his friend had the audacity to laugh at his misery, but poured him another drink in an attempt to sooth his wounded pride.

Toby upended their day to day, as dogs were wont to do. Under tables, under chairs, underfoot, there wasn’t a spot or place he stepped or sat where he was not reminded of the dog’s existence. A shoe chewed to bits, a chair filled up with hair, a sausage stolen from a plate and more often a yell from either maid or himself at the creature’s disobedience, or little surprises he left on the carpets. 

His wife asked him (ordered him) to walk the dog in the evenings or mornings, and his routine was upended as well. Finding himself walking through the biting cold to let the bloody runt do his business. And Toby, for his part enjoyed every last moment of his new life, even going so far as to wake them for breakfast with _relentless barking_.

But Toby integrated himself into their lives, as dogs were wont to do, and a chewed shoe became an old toy, a chair became his own little spot in the sun and a stolen sausage was now instead one snuck under the table when his wife wasn’t watching. Soon the beguiled animal was sprawled under nothing and instead curled close to Watson’s feet after pleasant walks, which now only managed to help unwind the Doctor after his long days cooped up in his practice.

So their family grew, and Watson’s happiness became a sturdy wonderful thing, strong enough he believed to withstand any tragedy.

And then Holmes tumbled over the falls, and Watson’s heart nearly stopped dead. The glow once so bright dimmed to almost nothing. For how long he lingered at the edge of that cliff, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend, to hear him laugh or call out he could not say precisely. He just knew his hope would not die.

He still had no memory of how he returned to the station. Of how he got home, or how his wife found him in the sitting room, lost to the world with Toby’s head resting on his lap. Watson would not cry that day. Nor at the funeral four days later when the hope finally faded into nothing. 

But good news seemed to follow bad. Mary’s pregnancy was a miracle he cherished, and eight months later a tragedy was softened by a joy. The small bundle held a hope he never thought to have again. They named him Henry, after his brother and Arthur after her late father. Watson couldn’t name him Sherlock. He doubted his friend would ever forgive him for damning a child with a name he’d hated so vehemently.

And it would only tether a joy to a tragedy.

For five whole months his world was consumed by softness, pink and sweetness. The babe gargled, hiccupped and cried and Mary’s patience dissipated any frustration he may have felt at being awakened at two in the morning. Toby took to sleeping under the crib, the dog’s satisfaction at the new babe almost silly, but there it was. He followed the child everywhere it was carried by maid, Mary or Watson, like a small scruffy guardian angel. 

“Oh, my dear, Toby” he said one evening after his wife had put Henry in the crib. The dog pricked his ears and Watson knelt down to pet the soft head. Toby panted, his tail thumping against the soft carpet. Watson smiled, “You’re a very good dog, you know? We’re lucky to have you.”

Toby licked his hand, and when Watson stood, he replaced his head on his paws to continue his vigil. Watson smiled, and left.

Two nights later he was woken by insistent whining and slobber over his cheek. Before he could yell at the dog, the animal trotted out. Watson quietly stood, assuring his wife he would be but a moment, hoping the worry did not translate to his voice. Toby was waiting for him in Henry’s room, still whining, ears flat and paw scratching at the crib. When he dared peak into the crib, Henry coughed and Watson instantly scooped the lad up into his arms, hurrying him to his medical bag. His heart beating like a mad-man against the cage of his chest.

A soft pitiful cough turned out to be galloping consumption, catching them in a web of desperation and fear. Their nights and days became a relay, Watson, Mary and Maid each taking their turn at the crib to watch and wait and treat. And by their feet, ever constant was Toby, ever watchful. But their desperation would be for naught as the consumption inevitably strangled them in a new tragedy. It was Mary who found Henry, cold and quiet in the morning when Toby had started barking. Mary was inconsolable, her tears and heart wrenching screams from her almost too painful to bare, but Watson did, at least for her sake he managed to. 

He was swept up by her misery, unable to come to terms with his own, but he shoved it down hoping to coax Mary back into the world of the living. But her depression pulled her under like an anchor tied to her feet, and soon she took to her bed. Before Watson could rightfully even try to help, she passed away in the night. Leaving his bed and his heart cold and empty.

He was vaguely surprised by his numbness, and yet he wasn’t. He could not imagine crying, not even as he watched a third coffin be lowered into the dark earth in less than two years. He returned home that night to sleep on the couch. Toby close by his side. 

The mornings blurred into one another.

Every morning he got up, barely ate anything at breakfast, walked his dog, attended his practice and headed home to sit in front of the fire and brood. If Mary were here, she would most likely “Tsk” at his actions, before telling him to do something productive. And Holmes, dear Holmes, would pull him up from his seat and drag him to the Turkish baths, unable to stand his sulking. He realized he truly wished they were there, but he wanted them to see him like this to force some guilt in their way, for leaving him, for not being there.

He felt horrible for thinking it. But he was still angry enough to throw his tea-cup against the wall, the porcelain pieces shattering across the room, tea spraying over the carpet and furniture. The bout of anger had him reeling, surprised at himself. A soft wetness pulled him from his fury and he found Toby next to him, licking his hand. Watson knelt and hugged the dog close. 

Soon even the anger dimmed, leaving that same hollowness from before, when Holmes had fallen almost three years ago. But there would be no miracle to pull him back out. Despite a life ticking away, it felt as if everything had stopped. The world tethering him closer and closer to that horrible edge he knew his friend had slipped over, beckoning him to follow him into the abyss.

“John, you can’t go on like this,” said Stamford one winter afternoon. They were having tea in his Livingroom, hiding away from the snow blanketing the streets outside. His friend was seated across from him, leaning over in his chair, hand on Watson’s arm. “You need to move on.”

“I have tried,” he said, his own hand petting the head of Toby, nestled close, “But the ghosts just won’t seem to leave.”

Stamford continued to visit him semi-regularly. Often bringing good brandy, cigars or books to lift his spirits, he had no heart to tell him he never read the books and only indulged in drink and cigars when his friend visited.

Then Toby couldn’t climb the stairs one morning, and Watson’s heart stuttered to life with fear and horror. For the first time noting the white flecks around the muzzle, the stiff gait in the mornings and the eyes now covered in cataracts. He collapsed to his knees, pulling the dog close, holding him to his chest and rocking him softly back and forth.

That evening he sat on the edge of the bed. In his hand the moonlight caught the slick metal of the revolver resting loosely on his fingers. After all this time, he’d finally reached a point, he couldn’t bare to lose another one. He couldn’t live through it again. For so long he’d suffered through misery after misery, to see another with nothing to catch him would surely break him. 

Thankfully all of it would be over soon. Lifting the gun, he placed it to his temple and closed his eyes.

Warmth pressed against his hand and he looked down, startled. Toby, eyes big and round, whined softly and pressed a little closer. Watson’s heart squeezed, the gun clattered from his hand, and he slid down from the bed to wrap his arms around Toby. 

“Dear Toby,” he said, voice trembling, “You needn’t protect me so, boy. But you’ve been through all of it as well, haven’t you? Holmes and Mary and Henry …”

Toby only whined, pressing closer, muzzle nestled in his neck. He couldn’t do that to him, leave him alone, and perhaps Toby knew this. Perhaps he’d always known. He squeezed him tighter, "Forgive me, boy."

The next morning the maid found Watson asleep at the foot of the bed, with Toby draped across his lap.

Their walks were exchanged for comfortable mornings in front of the fire. Watson smoking a cigar, and Toby warming up by his feet. At night the poor dog limped up the stairs to sleep in Watson's room. As if he refused to let him be out of sight for even a moment. And no matter how much Watson scolded, the dog would inevitably find its way upstairs, to lay by his master’s feet, to keep him safe.

Watson soon exchanged his bed for the couch, giving the poor dog at least that rest, and Toby happily now sleeps in the Livingroom. Every morning when he woke, he called out to the dog, and Toby, tired and almost entirely blind now, lifted his head and gave a ‘whuff’ in good morning. His heart won’t stand it, one morning, he knew he would wake up and Toby would be gone.

But day after day the dear animal woke up, fuzzy and soft to nuzzle his hand and accept a hot sausage from the maid. He held on, for whatever reason, his dear dog held on.

The bitter cold morning in court was much like any other. His dog woke up, his breakfast was hot and the walk was horrible. The frost did nothing to lighten his mood, and his anger towards the old book collector was unneeded. But as he jumped in the coach he could care less. He’d barely settled in his office, when the old man entered, a flurry of rags and words and Watson had barely heard a word when he was distracted for a moment, only to turn around and feel his heart stutter.

“Holmes…?” he asked, barely able to believe his mouth let alone his eyes. There in all his glory stood his dearest friend, pale, thin but _smiling_.

“Dear Watson!” his friend exclaimed, his voice thick with laughter and eyes possibly brimming with happy tears. In the next half-an-hour the Doctor’s world was rebalanced and brightened by light, and another miracle had saved John Watson. 

Without thought or consideration he cancelled his appointments and followed Holmes. Throughout the day they went from one place to another, Watson barely understanding what was going on, but happy to feel so disoriented once more. There could, he thought, be no better feeling. Holmes babbled and spoke and laugh, and _breathed_ and it was all Watson could do not to hug him close forever. But every now and then through the day his mind would pull back to Toby, sitting in his basket, waiting for him to return. 

Then they found themselves waiting in darkness for a killer, and all other thoughts died in the face of imminent danger. Moran’s shot was enough to make Watson’s blood run cold. A terrific shot, true and sharp. He was relieved to have Holmes here by his side. Chaos ensued, where Moran was subdued and in stormed Lestrade expression a mixture of surprise, joy and frustration. “Come now Watson!” said Holmes, once the Detectives had left with their quarry, “I daresay we deserve a night cap, and a celebration of sorts!”

He opened his mouth to agree, to follow Holmes once more. Down the street, up the stairs to comfortably settle in his old chair at Baker Street, but he stopped, his thought firmly now on his dear friend waiting at home. So instead he said, “Holmes, would you humour me?”

Holmes blinked, slightly taken aback, “Well, you have humoured me all day, dear fellow, so certainly!”

“Then please follow me.” And without another word he led Holmes down the stairs into the cold of night, where they found a cab to take them to his small home. A few times Holmes inquired, curious and baffled by Watson’s demeanor, and although Watson felt in his bones this would not be an entirely pleasant evening, he felt some satisfaction in surprising the smartest man alive for once.

It was dark when they entered foyer. Only a small light burned in the Livingroom. Watson stepped inside the warm room, followed by a very curious Holmes.

There inside lay Toby curled up in his basket. The fire long since burned out, but a small lamp burning to keep vigil for the servant’s master. With steady steps he walked closer, and knelt before the dog. His heart unclenched with pure relief when he saw the light breathing. His hand slid into the soft fur and the brown eyes blinked open, upon spotting Watson the silky tail thumped a few times. Watson smiled.

“Toby?” said Holmes, and this was rewarded with another few thumps coupled with a whine. “Oh, my dear friend.” His hand slid over the ribs and flank, petting him softly, his eyes becoming misty in the soft light. 

Watson leaned closer and pecked him on the forehead, “It’s alright now,” he said, “I have Holmes again, you don’t have to look after me anymore.”

Toby whined and Holmes glanced at Watson, but the Doctor kept his face close, petting the head and listening to the dog’s breathing. After a moment he sat back a little, and watched Toby’s eyes close and his breathing become steady, slower and softer…

And stopped.

His hand continued to stroke over the soft head until a pebble of moisture plipped over his hand and then another, and another. Like an emotional roar, the sobs tore through him and over three years of heart ache finally burst to the fore. Despair, so much despair and misery consumed him, sending him closer and closer to an edge he wanted to leap off of.

And there was Holmes, his arms wrapped around him, his words barely audible but a soft guidance back to the miracle that was him being alive and here. But still Watson cried, for Mary, for Henry, for Holmes and now for Toby, his dearest friend also gone.

It would be a few hours before the two finally made it back to Baker Street where the smile and joy of Mrs. Hudson chased away many cobwebbed demons still lurking in the dusty corners of his mind. The sharp pierce of tragedy still stung, but with Holmes by his side, he at least knew he could once more bear it. 

A few days later, the graveyard keeper was asked to place another small headstone next to Henry Watson’s, this time for a small dog.

_Here lies Toby, a Guardian Angel who has now become a Guardian of Angels._

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very self-indulgent, I wrote it on a whim, after brooding over the death of a dog a few years back. It was supposed to be far more miserable - with Watson being found cradling the dead dog and Mycroft walking in on him - nice an angsty. But as I explored my own loss, I realised that dogs, no matter during what stage in your life you meet them will always leave a sense of happiness and joy even after their passing. And when we think back on them, it is difficult not to smile through the tears.
> 
> Because no love, I believe, is more honest than the one bestowed upon you by a dog.


End file.
